


Sketchbook

by Judopixie



Category: Colditz (1972)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Corpses, Even Mohn has feelings, F/M, Graphic Description, Graphic Description of Corpses, Heavy Angst, Men Crying, Mental Anguish, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-11
Updated: 2015-05-11
Packaged: 2018-03-30 02:08:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3918880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Judopixie/pseuds/Judopixie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mohn drew the images that wouldn't leave him alone in sketchbooks and hid them in the castle. As they're found the residents get a glimpse into his thoughts.<br/>WARNING: Graphic content.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sketchbook

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crimsondust](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsondust/gifts), [Katathean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katathean/gifts).



> Once again, this story contains a lot of very graphic descriptions, if this is likely to trigger or upset you in any way I'd recommend you don't continue reading. Thanks to Katathean and Crimsondust for the beta reading and encouragement.

15th March 1945

Kommandant Karl frowned at the small pile of items sitting before him on the desk. An NCO had been clearing Major Mohn’s quarters of his personal effects after the man had decided to take his leave rather abruptly when he’d discovered a small hollow in the base of his wardrobe which contained, among other things, a gravity knife, a few letters from family and a sketchbook. It was this last item that puzzled him. Mohn had never given any indication of being any kind of artist and yet the books were all signed and dated in his former second in command’s handwriting. Sighing he picked up the first book, dated ‘May – October 1941’. The majority of the sketches in the first half were of him with what appeared to be friends, Karl felt his frown deepen slightly; Mohn looked younger and in most of the pictures with him in he was wearing a large smile. He had never smiled like that in the 2 years he’d been here. It was halfway through this first book that Karl began to notice a change, the pictures becoming darker and more violent. A man he vaguely recognised from the earlier pictures so riddled with bullet holes that there were tufts of grass sticking up where his neck would be, a copse of trees with at least one man hanging from each in a sick parody of Christmas decorations, someone’s eyes gleaming out of the darkness as the bayonet he held flashed towards the viewer. Karl shut the book with a snap soon after he got to pictures from the Eastern Front. The few pictures of him with friends or fantastical drawings of dragons were not enough to cancel out the horrific images that were drawn so clearly as to be a photograph. He frowned as he thought of how often Mohn must’ve seen these images to capture them so clearly, and then wondered just how close he may have been when he’d told Ulmann that Mohn was not well.

* * *

17th September 1947

  
Cathy felt tears sting her eyes slightly. The pictures in the book were terrifying, but it felt as though the sadness was coming through the page at you. She’d found it amongst Simon’s things, it had stood out instantly. The book was marked ‘January – June 1942’. The pictures seemed to have been drawn somewhere cold, the snow was piled high and the trees were bare.  
“What are you doing?” Simon’s voice came behind her. He snatched the book from her when he saw it. “Where did you find that?”  
“In your drawer.” She said. “It wasn’t yours, I was curious.” Simon flipped the book shut. “It was from Colditz.”  
"Who’s was it?”  
"The second in command’s. Mohn.”  
"That Mohn?”  
"Yeah, that Mohn.” The awkward silence between them was broken by Cathy.  
"Poor man.”  
Simon looked at her, incredulous. “Poor man? Haven’t you listened to anything I ever said about him?” “You said everyone hated him and he was bayonetted in the stomach.”  
“And that he had three commandos killed, he read our mail and listened in on our dormitory and tried to have one of my friends killed. He tried to have me killed! Twice!”  
"I know. But these pictures, they’re sad Simon, even you can see that.” “I wouldn’t know, I kept it so I’d have a picture of him if he ever turned up again, I never looked at it.”  
Cathy sighed. “If you look at them they’re horrible. And he must’ve seen them hundreds of times, they’re so clear.”  
"Look you don’t know what it was like there, ok?” Simon shouted. “You didn’t know him, you never met him and all you’re judging from is a few pictures he drew!” Cathy got up and moved to go downstairs. “I’m going to make dinner.”  
Simon sat on the bed, fiddling with the sketchbook. He eventually opened it, the image that greeted him was shocking. Mohn was smiling. Actually, properly smiling. He had his arm around the waist of a tall woman with light hair. They were both beaming out at Simon, who quickly flipped to the next page. It was the same woman, alone this time. She was older than Cathy, older than Mohn by the looks of it, and not especially pretty, she looked rather like Mohn actually. A particularly filthy sketch on the next page quickly ruled out the possibility of her being his mother. Hopefully. Simon yawned and started flipping through the rest. There were a few recurring characters, a huge, hulking man who appeared to be Mohn’s best friend, a scowling, scaly skinned man holding what appeared to be a spatula and a small and skinny SS officer with a head that was too big for him. A few of the pictures were particularly disturbing. The men were skinny, their ribs showing in an unhealthy way, most of the pictures had at least one dead body, usually mangled and riddled with bullet holes. One man’s head sat a good five feet from his body, the neck mangled and the snow stained with blood, another man’s ribcage crushed into pate with tank tracks running through it. The last one made him throw the book into the corner of the room. It was as though he as sitting up in Mohn’s bed. A snarling face leaned over him, through the bullet holes in the man’s skull you could see other figures, standing illuminated by the pale moonlight. Another man, his guts trailing out of his uniform, a hideously scarred man who’s left eye appeared to be missing, several people with what looked like burns covering their skin and, most disturbingly, a boy of around 10 years old. He was small, his eyes were empty and his grin was obscured by the blood running from the hole in the middle of his forehead. Simon frowned and looked to the picture of Cathy on the wall. Retrieving the book he turned to a happier sketch. It confirmed his suspicions. They were both dated in the bottom left hand corner. Dated in the same handwriting.

* * *

13th April 1945  
John Preston felt his eyebrows jerk up at the first picture. A young Major Mohn, around 20 he would estimate, beamed out of the page. Beside him stood another young man, so similar in appearance that had it not been for Mohn's darker hair he would've thought they were the same person. Beside that young man was third young man, far shorter and not as similar looking but obviously related. Between them they held a girl who had her head propped on one arm and was using the other to gesture to the men behind her with a 'you see what I have to put up with?' expression.  
Mohn had mentioned having younger siblings once, were these them?  
By now they'd all heard that Mohn had hidden sketchbooks around the castle and the attempt to find them had turned from mild interest to fierce competition. The Colonel did not approve. He hadn't liked Major Mohn, he had told the man he'd be glad to see him burn in Hell, but regardless of that, and the fact that Mohn had been the first to read the prisoners private letters, he didn't approve of the way the men took delight in invading what were no doubt very private thoughts. After some of the stories John didn't think he wanted to see Mohn's private thoughts.  
Perhaps it was this that made it so surprising to see Mohn with his family. The pictures were all rather happy. One of the four young people with their arms around a much older woman, another of the same woman with a different man, one of Mohn in an apparently very passionate kiss with a woman who John had to assume was his girlfriend. Mohn with a girlfriend, the very idea seemed wrong. He couldn't help noting that Mohn looked far more carefree in the pictures, with the exception of one where he glared daggers at the man with the older woman. He didn't yet have the dark circles trying not to appear beaten look he'd had in Colditz. He wore a Hauptman's shoulder boards and his uniform was far less bedecked in gongs. The last sketch caught his eye. It appeared to have been torn from a previous book and stuck to the back of this one. Mohn sat in a tiny room with a young girl, barely more than a toddler, on his knee. The girl had her arms around his neck and they were both smiling madly. The caption read '15th May 1941, Heidi's second birthday'. John wondered if the girl, Heidi, was Mohn's daughter. He never imagined him as a family man but then he'd never imagined him with a girlfriend either. John thought of his own sons, 8 and 6 now. He felt strange considering Mohn with a family. He knew he must've had one, parents if nothing else, but somehow it didn't fit the image of cold, tight-arsed, emotionless Mohn for them to be there. He thought of the way Mohn had steadily looked more and more exhausted since he'd arrived. At the time he'd assumed it must've been the stress of the war going badly for Germany and the pain of his wounds but perhaps, in hindsight, Mohn hadn't been quite as emotionless as he tried to appear...

* * *

31st March 1945  
Tim smirked when he came across the book. He'd been hoping to find one of these ever since he'd heard about them. Mohn had read his letters, fair was fair. Sitting at the library table to flip through it the first thing he noticed was the date. April - June 1940. The first sketch was of a tall, skinny youth covered in a lumpy, sticky looking goo with a bowl on his head. The capton read 'Heinrich learns why you push the door at arm's length'. It was dated 1st of April. Tim laughed at the idea that Mohn had ever played or even participated in an April Fool's prank. The man was much too uptight for that. Most of the pictures seemed fairly mundane really. A few of the countryside, some pictures of a, presumably Belgian given the date, military base. Tim was a little disappointed. All the others seemed to have gotten particularly juicy ones. Some of nightmares, some of dead people. The last few were disturbing enough for Tim to be a little glad not to find those ones. In the second to last one seemingly Mohn's entire unit was trying to cover their noses and mouths whilst a couple looked to be chocking with vomit trailing across their collars. This wouldn't have been a huge issue were it not for the man in the top right. He was huge even bent over as he was and built like a brick shelter. Tim remembered that man. The others he didn't but the man stuck in his mind, along with the burnt tree across the road. He hadn't thrown the canister but he watched as it took effect. The last picture was of a graveyard. Empty and focused on one grave. 'Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends. John 15:13. Heinrich Kruger. 1911 - 1940. Husband of Gerda, father of Jana. Killed in a gas attack serving his fatherland. May he rest in peace.'  
Tim slammed the book back into its cubbyhole. The Padre insisted Mohn had needed help. That was ridiculous. The guy was insane.  Unhinged. He needed a good firm size 10 up the backside to sort him out. Tim left the book there. He'd had enough of Mohn's private thoughts for today.

* * *

2nd April 1945  
Padre Jordan found the book in the chapel, under one of the mostly unused pews. He wouldn't have looked had it not been open. It was a picture of a boy, young and small with dark hair in a Wermacht uniform. The picture was dated 21st July 1937, the caption read 'Bruno's graduation.'  
The page was dotted with small, rough dots, as though something had dripped on the paper.  
It was incongruous amongst the other pictures, all of them marked 1942-1943. The Padre felt his face drain of colour as he examined the other pictures. They were gruesome. The bodies were invariably mangled and bloody, the men thin and exhausted looking. They were attempting to smile but the weariness they exhibited drowned out any cheerfulness. The pictures of Christmas day shocked him. The men were roasting what looked like rats on spits and vegetable peelings served as the veg. The presents were all Russian, from the men they'd killed he presumed. There was one picture of a tall, and rather beautiful, woman. The room in which she stood was decorated for Christmas and she had her arms around Mohn's neck, her fingers tangled in his hair. He was smiling, a warm and genuine smile. The Padre was surprised at how happy Mohn looked. He relaxed in the woman's arms, their foreheads pressed together as they looked deep into each other's eyes. But the whole image was distorted, as though it hadn't really happened.  
The Padre thought of Mohn. Of how he'd never really looked happy or even relaxed here. Even his smug smiles had seemed brittle by the end. Perhaps the woman had died, or cut off ties with him, and he'd been pushed into that final spiral. The poor, poor man he thought. To be abandoned by everyone you loved and surrounded by men who hate you. He hadn't liked the man but he had been hurting, in hindsight Jordan wished he'd seen that.   
_I will pray for you tonight my friend._ Jordan thought as he returned the book to its hiding place. It had been hidden for a reason and he intended to keep the confidence. Perhaps the Lord would watch over young Mohn tonight, wherever he was. A gentle hand to reassure the young man as he left everything behind to start again. Jordan really hoped things would be alright for him. He deserved some happiness if the pictures were anything to go by.

* * *

4th April 1945  
George swallowed as he looked at the sketch in front of him. There were an alarming number of pictures looking down from rooftops or of men with guns. One of Mohn chained up and battered, another of various bloody battlefields that seemed to fade into each other, Mohn lying asleep whilst a hideously scarred man squated on his chest. Then this one.  
It was as if Mohn had drawn a self portrait in a cracked mirror, a dozen pairs of dark circles, several brittle smiles and at least 5 full pairs of sad, tired looking eyes. The center of the crack was directly over his mouth.  
The next picture was better but somehow worse. Mohn was in what was apparently the mess. The other officers were gathered around, having what looked like a fiery discussion. All except Mohn who sat on his own, jaw tight and a wistful expression on his face. He couldn't have been more obviously on the outside if he'd tried.  
George remembered that. Feeling on the outside. George remembered that look too. Trying to appear fine when you weren't and you knew it. His nightmares reiterated that enough times. The one where he was trapped in a huge white room that had no door or the one where he sat in the dorm screaming with no sound and pounding on an invisible wall. He knew you didn't have to be alone to feel it.  
George actually surprised himself by feeling sorry for the German. He was an arsehole, that was undeniable, but looking back over his own sketches from when Mohn arrived to the last one before the man left he saw Mohn steadily look more tired, more hopeless. More lonely. He looked back to the self portrait. Mohn was trying to smile but it somehow made him look more broken. He felt just the tiniest bit sorry for Mohn. He never did anything to be liked but it couldn't have been easy living in a place where 99.9% of the population hated you. From the stories of others who'd found sketchbooks he hadn't been the most emotionally stable to start with.

* * *

8th April 1945  
Page flipped through the book he'd found. Even with another of Mohn's sketchbooks in his hands he was avoided by all. Everyone was gruesomely curious about these books. What could be so interesting about them? They were the boring thoughts of a boring man. But it was for that reason he was looking through this book. Everyone was interested in something apparently uninteresting. That was wrong and he should investigate.  
He felt himself relax just a little at the pictures. They were just as he'd imagined they would be. Boring, mundane, dull. The prisoners had always treated Mohn differently. To them he had been loathsome, to Page he was a threat. From that first time when he'd confessed to nearly blinding that idiot Walker the man had looked almost understanding, as though he knew he wasn't just dealing with a normal prisoner. That also couldn't be right. The man was a Nazi, a dutiful soldier. If he even suspected Page was anything other than what he was he'd have been straight on the phone to the Gestapo.  
The very last picture made him snap the book shut. A boy. The boy. The boy he'd sent on that mission in France. Broken, bleeding and burned. Tied to a chair with a man pointing a gun at his head and another removing a glowing poker from the fire.  
Page burnt the book that evening. He learnt long ago that there were things that need never see the light of day.

* * *

10th April 1945  
Tears trickled down Anna's cheeks as she looked at the pictures. She had found the book in the cabinet on Horst's side of the bed. She knew she shouldn't have looked but she was curious. The first sketch horrified her. A man lay with his chest ripped open and his face mangled. The next few were all of war. She recognized most of the men as people Horst had drunk with. Horst's friends. The rest were of her or the two of them together. Him sleeping in her arms or her arms around him after a nightmare. Despite being different pictures they were all so similar. The area around them was dingy but the two of them were brighter, brighter than normal. They were the only pictures where he smiled. The final picture was a huge staircase, Horst's friends marched behind him as he reached out to the shining figure at the top of it. The moonlight illuminated the face, her face, as it smiled down at them. Behind her a beautiful city fanned out, huge crystalline towers half covered by clouds.  
Horst told her once that he drew the things he couldn't explain. Had he drawn this for her to show her his nightmares because he couldn't talk about them? She thought of how something had changed about him after Stalingrad. How he'd become quieter, more withdrawn and yet seemed to cling to her more than ever. How he told her he loved her at least three times every time he saw her. How he'd wake up screaming and crying every night. He'd kiss her hard and she'd feel the tears rolling down his cheeks. She'd heard the desperation in his voice that last phone call. She felt so guilty that she'd abandoned him in his hour of need after telling him she wanted to spend the rest of her life with him. He'd once told her how he'd felt so alone, she hated herself for contributing to that. She wanted to wrap him in her arms now. Kiss his hair and tuck him into bed and tell him everything would be alright somehow. She hoped he'd find someone else to love one day. He deserved it after all he'd been through.

* * *

22nd March 1945  
"You understand my difficulty Karl?" Asked General Schetzel.  
Karl nodded. "Yes sir."  
"Do you have any idea why Mohn would suddenly decided to abandon his post?"  
"I'm afraid not sir." Karl said a little too rigidly.  
"Karl, we are friends having a private conversation. There is no need for secrecy."  
Karl sighed. Two more sketchbooks had come across his desk since Mohn had left.  
"There are... certain items which lead me to believe he was... unwell."  
"Such as?"  
"Sketchbooks."  
General Schetzel paused.  
"Show me." He said eventually.  
The pictures were gruesome. Men riddled with bullet holes, some moving towards Mohn with outstretched hands. Faces of men half smiling half dead. Multiple pictures of the various officers looking at him with contempt. Portraits of him crying, his eyes broken and sad. One featured shattered mirror fragments which, upon closer inspection, were fragments of a smiling Mohn. In one he clung to an older woman as shadowy hands reached out for them, whilst in another the same woman was spinning off into darkness. There were numerous sketches of Mohn dead from various wounds, of him holding knives to his painfully thin forearms and the blood trickling out. Pictures from aeroplanes with gun flashes as the only lighting, pictures of Mohn falling from a roof as the garrison watched, pictures of Mohn screaming with no one looking up. In one his entire eyeballs were missing leaving two empty, bleeding sockets. His self portraits were eye opening. He was incredibly thin, his ribs too clear to be healthy. His scars were drawn in vivid detail. In some he kissed the woman from before or made love to her but they were distorted, as though it was a scene watched through a head rush. A few openly had cracks running through them. One of Mohn standing staring at the cracks running through the various pictures of his life.  
On and on the pictures piled. He was white by the end. Schetzel knew very little about psychology but these were not the thoughts of a stable man.  
"And these were found in Mohn's quarters?" He asked.  
"Not all of them. The second and third were hidden." Karl replied.  
"You are sure they're Mohn's?"  
"Positive."  
Schetzel pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.  
"Did you know?" He asked.  
Karl shook his head. "He didn't spend much time with the other officers, we all assumed he was just a solitary person."  
"He spent no time in the mess?"  
"As little as possible."  
"Was he well liked?"  
Karl avoided his gaze.  
"Karl?"  
"No." Karl replied. "The few who didn't openly loathe him just didn't care. He never seemed to care about our opinions."  
Schetzel looked back to the pictures. "Would he have confided in anyone had he been unwell?"  
"Not within the camp I don't think."  
"No one at all?"  
"As I say, he was estranged from the other officers. He was very private."  
"Was he private or did he stay quiet to maintain the image of a strong man who others could look up to?"  
Karl was floored. It felt so strange to think of Mohn as a human being with actual feelings. He had always taken Mohn's reluctance to share anything of his private life as a blessing so the man would stop talking. He had hardly noticed when Mohn started avoiding the mess entirely, preferring to eat his dinner alone with his chess. At least he assumed it was chess. Was this what he'd been doing all that time?  
"Destroy them." Schetzel's order cut through Karl's reverie. "And may God have mercy on Mohn,  wherever he is."  
"What will you tell Berlin?" Karl asked.  
"That Mohn resigned. That his health deteriorated to the point where he was too ill to continue his work."  
"It's not too far from the truth." Karl said.  
"Not too far at all the poor boy..."

* * *

16th March 1945  
Ulmann's heart picked up its pace as he stared at the pictures. They were horrible. Gruesome scenes of men with caved in heads or shattered torsos. An image apparently of Mohn in theatre, his abdomen opened from stomach to groin and the surgeon half way through removing part of his stomach. The others were tamer yet no less painful. Mohn walked through the prisoner's courtyard, everyone glaring at his back. Mohn stood in the Kommandant's office stoney faced whilst the Kommandant looked at him with anger and disappointment. Countless sketches of men, guards and prisoner alike, watching him with outright loathing. Ulmann assumed Mohn had been ignorant to how disliked he was here. It was a little sad to think he'd known just how much people hated him.  
He felt a tiny bit sorry for Mohn. The man may have blackmailed and bullied him but he couldn't look at the gruesome yet photo perfect sketches in the books without wondering how much emotional damage the war had done to him. He wouldn't forget the way Mohn had looked at him when he'd walked him back to his quarters. Hurt, betrayed. Scared. Like a child who you had tricked. Like a child who you had hurt. The way Mohn had backed away from him and curled his arms around his stomach made him appear more vulnerable than ever before. The unshed tears in his eyes only added to the look of a wild animal. Of a man who's world had crashed down around him and left him struggling to pick up the pieces.  
By far the most disturbing picture was the final one in the book. It was dated the 14th March 1945, the night Mohn had been relieved of his duties. The mess was lit by the warm glow of the fire and the men chatted cheerfully with drinks in their hands. Through the flames there reached a small, hideously burnt hand. A child's hand.

* * *

 


End file.
